“Not enough to think that might work. Besides, I like a man who knows what he’s doing in the bedroom. A man who’s a little bossy.”
“Growly,” her sister agrees. “But he’s got to know what to say to give a girl those feels.”
“And what letter in the kink alphabet is that?” I find myself asking. These two are as drunk as skunks!
“A is for aural” Kennedy says, glancing back at her phone. “But the list begins with A as in age play.” At this her gaze turns to her sister who begins to merrily convulse.
“Who’s playing?” my twenty-four-year-old sister-in-law says, batting away tears. “An older man can be the bomb.”
“You’re suggesting I should seek a senior citizen?”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Holland answers with a laugh. A laugh that deepens as the sonorous tones of my brother carry across the terrace.
“Tried what, my sweet?”
“Uh-oh,” she whispers. “Daddy’s home!”
I groan and I laugh, burying my head in my hands, part amused, part mortified.
“Such an enlightening conversation,” my brother whispers, pressing a kiss to his wife’s head. “Not that I was eavesdropping much.”
“You big ole liar pants,” Holland purrs.
“Care to accompany me upstairs to help me get out of them?”
“Cake and birthday songs first,” she answers, sliding her hands around his neck.
It’s sweet yet sort of sad, watching a pair so obviously in love. Sad perhaps because it leaves me feeling lacking somehow. But not for long as my boys come scampering across the terrace.
“My gorgeous men have returned,” I call as Hugh and Archie throw their arms around me. Over their heads, I watch as Wilder snuggles next to his mother on the opposite bench. He’s such a sweet boy and so much quieter than my rabble rousers. “How was the match?” I ask, staring into their gorgeously grubby faces. Tears teeter suddenly on my lids, something like relief flooding my nervous system. It’s like the whole afternoon has been one, long, held breath and now I’m only just recognizing that deprivation. It’s not about missing them or worrying about how they’ve been because I know they’ll always be safe with my brother. If it comes to that. I squeeze the pair tighter to me. “Did you have all the fun?”
Both boys begin to speak at once, words tumbling out of their mouths. Best day ever! Cake and cola! Private jets are the best. The words come thick and fast, tumbling over their tongues and each other.
“Arsenal won, and the striker gave me his shirt,” Hugh exclaims, waving a slightly sweaty-smelling blue-and-white shirt under my nose.
“Amazing!”
“Look, Mummy. He wrote my name on it, too! Just don’t wash it ever, okay?”
“We’ll get a glass case to keep it in.” To hide the smell if nothing else.
“He wished me happy birthday and ruffled my hair like he liked me!”
“Who wouldn’t like you?” With another squeeze, I turn to my younger son. “How about you, Archie. Did you have fun?”
“I had snacks on the plane,” he replies quite happily, pulling (presumably) pilfered packets of nuts from his pockets. “The lady in the uniform said I could take some home for later,” he adds when he catches me staring. “Private jets are much better than big airplanes. You don’t have to wait for the toilet, and the chairs are like sofas, so you can lie on them if you want.”
“Excellent.”
“Can we buy one?”
“Probably not just yet.” Or ever.
“I had a burger and chips and lots of cake!” Archie reports, unperturbed. My baby has been eating his feelings since the divorce. “I didn’t even get a tummy ache.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. I hope you remembered to say thank you to Mr. Vanyin.”
“Who?” Archie asks, his face scrunching adorably.
“She means Uncle Van,” Hugh utters in a superior tone. The pair turn their heads over the back of the bench and shout, “Thank you, Uncle Van!”
Oh God. Just how long has he been standing there?
19
Isla
“What are you doing here?” I murmur as we make our way inside for what’s turning out to be Hugh’s second birthday cake of the day. The children run ahead, followed by the other adults, Gertie lolloping behind as though knowing they’ll reach the kitchen first. We bring up the rear. A close rear. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” I add, wanting to kick myself for being ungracious. “It’s just…” I sneak a look at him in profile. Something about those dark jeans and midnight shirt make him look lethal, the bristles on his face drawing unnecessary attention to his lips. “You’re growing a beard?” Immediately regretting the words, I swing my attention to my family as they dip under an ancient stone arch before turning a corner and disappearing out of sight.
“Do you like it?”
I sniff, hoping to convey my indifference. “It’s your face.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”